


Don't Smile

by Anonymous



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: American Politics, Crack, Dirty Thoughts, I'm so sorry sweet Jesus forgive me, M/M, Masturbation, Politics, State of the Union
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 17:19:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5710687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was really going through Paul Ryan's head as he watched President Obama deliver the State of the Union.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Smile

**Author's Note:**

> What started as an innocent text to a friend turned into this.
> 
> I regret everything.

“You look good, sir,” a staffer reassured him, and Paul merely grunted, a little peeved because he hadn’t even asked. He knew he looked good, his widow’s peak in perfect alignment with the curve of his brow, his red tie immaculately tied. He had to look good, what with it being his first State of the Union as Speaker of the House, and he felt a weight drop in his stomach at that thought. Then again, at least he wasn’t orange. “And remember not to smile too much.”

Well, he hardly needed to be reminded of  _ that _ .

But still, something was bothering him, nagging him from the back of his mind, and he took a deep breath before climbing the podium and taking his seat. Then, all too quickly, the Sergeant-at-Arms made that prophetic announcement -- “Mr. Speaker, the President of the United States!”

And suddenly, Paul remembered what was bothering him -- how intoxicating being in the president’s presence was.

He could barely tear his eyes away as the president made his way slowly down the aisle, and it suddenly seemed as if his suit was two times too small.  _ It’s just the lights _ , he told himself, shifting uncomfortably against the brown leather, though when he glanced to his right at Joe, the Vice President didn’t seem to be feeling it. But that was the only explanation for the sweat that seemed to trickle down his back, and for the way his tie seemed just a little too tight.

The president was smiling and waving at the crowd, but as soon as it settled down, he turned to give Paul and Joe the official copies of his speech. Paul reached out for it, a tingle running down his spine when Barack's fingers brushed his, and he swallowed, hard, as Barack turned back around.

He hoped his voice didn’t sound too breathy as he stood, feeling shaky, to introduce the president, and he all but collapsed with relief back into his chair, focusing his attention away from his traitorous thoughts.  _ Focus on the back of his head _ , he told himself sternly.  _ And whatever you do, don't smile _ .

But then Barack started speaking, and Paul couldn’t help himself. It was like the president’s sultry voice was calling to him, and the joke he made at the very beginning had Paul wanting to laugh. And as the speech continued, Paul couldn’t help but begin to feel very uncomfortable indeed, as he stared at the perfectly shaped back of Barack’s head, as he allowed his mind to wander down paths previously unexplored...

He didn't want to like it...but he did.

_ The speech, that is _ , he told himself quickly, bringing himself back to reality at a sudden round of applause. That’s all that was distracting him. The president’s speech. Not at all the slight pull of his suit jacket across his broad shoulders, or the way his pants emphasized his perfect ass. No, just the speech, and if he kept telling himself that, perhaps he would make it through this.

It was Barack’s joke about health care that pushed it over the edge, that emphasized that it most certainly was not just the speech, and Paul shifted again after catching a glimpse of that warm, gorgeous smile, the back of his neck flushing red as his pants suddenly seemed too tight. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning, but he was sure it looked like he was trying to stop himself from smiling.

His hands twitched toward his crotch, as if he might be stupid enough to take himself in hand right here. But they stilled when Joe leaned over, a knowing twinkle in his eye. "Enjoying yourself?" he asked, with that dirty Uncle Joe smile.

This time, Paul let himself smile, if only in the desperate hope that it might ease some of the tension that he still felt. “Of course,” he replied, trying to keep his voice light and wincing slightly when it cracked.

He turned back to Barack, suddenly noticing for the first time the way the light shined through his ears.  _ He's got ears like mine _ , he thought, and without even realizing, added,  _ I bet our kids would have ears like that _ .

Kids?  _ Our _ kids? What was his brain thinking? He mentally scolded himself and focused again on the president, this time trying to memorize the exact thread count of his suit jacket collar. He clearly couldn’t be trusted to do much else.

At the homeland security section, he almost cracked. He didn't know what it looked like on tv, maybe like he was yawning or falling asleep, but inside, he was about to crack from trying to hold himself together, from trying to stop the moan escaping from his lips everything the fabric of his slacks brushed over his rather noticeable bulge.

Panicking, he glanced down, trying to adjust his jacket as if it might cover it, but had to be as noticeable at his widow's peak, as the sweat gliding down his brow that curved with his widow's peak so perfectly.

But if anyone noticed, if  _ Joe _ noticed, he didn't say anything, focusing instead on the post-it note he had out put on Barack's shoulder when he first came in, the one that commanded in bold letters, "JOE LOOK HERE". 

Desperate, Paul tried to manage the same thing, to look at one spot and not deviate, but his gaze kept wandering, to the president’s hands as he gestured, to the way he cocked his head, to the subtle movement of his muscles underneath that tailored suit. 

He was on a one-way trip to hell, and he knew it.

Paul tried to use Barack’s mention of civilian casualties to kill his boner, but it was to no avail. His throat bobbed when he imagined himself alone with Barack in the situation room, with Barack telling him in that voice that seemed to make the hairs on his arms stand up, “I just launched a drone attack” ...Christ, he could barely stand it.

And when the president mentioned lifting the embargo in Cuba, Paul felt a muscle work in his jaw as he wonder what might happen if he lifted his own self-enforced embargo, if his ass was open to trade again… He had participated, as all the young representatives did, in the sort of Greek fraternal bonds that always seemed to end with someone fucking Aaron Schock, but to fuck the President of the United States…

He forced his knees together, stared at Barack’s left shoulder, and prayed for relief, but it was not to come. Instead, his mind seemed content to force only the most lewd thoughts upon him, and his fingers dug into his thighs as he forced himself to keep looking at the president, to keep watching the president.

He wanted the president to trace the words ‘We the People’ with his tongue over his engorged member. He wanted to put his hands on the back of that salt-and-pepper head and facefuck the president, gag with him with his cock so that he couldn’t speak at all. He wanted to bend the president over the podium and fuck the liberal right out of him.

It was these thoughts, it was this burning in his heart, and mind, and groin, that kept him focused during the end of the speech, that kept his hands folded in his lap and his staff only at half-mast instead of straining against his pants.

As the speech finished, he stood, numbly, brushing his jacket to make sure it lay flat against him. His eyes watched as Obama left the podium, and his entire body seemed to ache, torn between going after him, grabbing him and kissing him, and fleeing the chamber as quickly as he could.

He chose the latter, slipping out of the side door of the chamber with only a quickly muttered, “Bathroom,” to an inquisitive staffer.

Paul tore down the hallway, barely making it to his private bathroom, panting heavily, and not from the exertion. In a moment he had shoved his pants down, bracing himself against the wall with one hand, the other finally,  _ finally _ wrapping around his rock hard cock. 

Wincing at the stimulation, he took a shaky breath, closing his eyes and picturing Barack. Almost involuntarily, his hand began to move, slowly at first, then picking up speed, slamming up and down the length of his cock as he bit back a moan.

In his head he heard the president’s voice saying triumphantly, “That’s why I stand here confident that the State of our Union is strong”, and he came messily, spending over his hand as he shuddered with the force of his orgasm.

He stood there for a long moment, breathing heavily, and started when a tentative knock came on the door. “Mr. Speaker?” a staffer asked, and Paul shook his head, trying to clear it.

“Just a moment,” he said roughly, his voice still strained, and he waited until he heard the footsteps retreating. Then he began to clean himself up, feeling thoroughly ashamed, but somehow, never feeling more American than he had in this moment.


End file.
